cv (ephemeras) wrote in repose, @ 2017-04-08 15:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, atticus mcvickers, janus allen |
[Capital: Janus & Atticus]
Who: Atticus and Janus
What: A date
Where: The Capital
When: AGES PAST
Warnings/Rating: They behaved
Atticus took the job at Vade Mecum. Admittedly, he became too engrossed in his new curation responsibilities. Became distracted enough by ephemera and old words on paper that he didn't go home for a few days. Matt still had the El Camino. Would need to get that back before he left for Chicago. But the old library was a convenient place to become lost. The letters collection was in the bowels of the place, nestled in the basement. Atticus had an office down there. Old-timey office that recalled a different type of life. Had a bathroom for washing up, back when people washed up at work. Had a leather couch with cracks in the armrests. There was a victrola. The place smelled of leather and dust. Atticus loved it. Lost track of time.
Had arranged to meet Janus in the Capital. Well, at least he was already in the Capital.
Atticus Washed up. Took a newly acquired sweater and slacks off the oak coat rack in the corner of his space. Wore an undershirt and brown shoes. Trimmed his beard. Dampened his curls. This was Atticus trying. Looked in the small mirror over the old sink, and didn't think he looked half bad. Eschewed his tweed coat for the evening. Was completely sober.
Was meeting Janus at the bar.
The Handy Liquor was a copy of a New York bar by the same name. Atticus had always liked the place. It played rock and old blues, jazz and sometimes piano. The place felt aged. No strobing lights. No music that you couldn't talk over. No bodies bouncing with rubber neon around necks and wrists. No sex in the bathroom while snorting lines. Was iconic. Was wood and reds and leather. Was a place Atticus felt at home.
Atticus waited outside. It was a clear night, and the air was starting to lose some of its bite. For Atticus, who had spent most of his childhood on the unforgiving banks of a Northeastern fishing town, this was temperate. His curls rustled in the night breeze, and he had a cigarette burning down between his fingers. The smell nearly masked the cologne Atticus wore, old and taken from his new-old office. It was a woodsy scent, and Atticus had become immediately fond of it. Wasn't fond enough not to smoke as he waited.
Janus was trying not to think about this too hard. If he did, he went down a rabbit hole of ugly revelations, things like, dating is bad for immortals ‘cuz they die and you don’t, and also, what if my officemates find out and eat him for breakfast (literally). It was Janus’ nature to try to live in the absolute present. If he had to think more than an hour ahead things got really messy, and if he had learned anything in 60-odd years (plus whatever eternity in Hell), it was that it was better to ignore all the maybe-what-ifs wherever possible.
Janus’ favorite, most frequent male form was a pretty close approximation to the one he’d been born in: brown hair, brown eyes, generic American charm, average height and weight. There were some distinct differences. He’d been a lot thinner when he died--that’s even assuming he managed to achieve normal weight after the POW thing, which he hadn’t. Maybe this form was a bit handsomer too, in a kind of roguish way, the way PFC Allen might have imagined he might look, if he was lucky. He didn’t need glasses, and he aged well, halting somewhere in his late forties, the way people do in their own minds once they hit peak humanity. Janus, therefore, was aiming for an idealized version of himself plus twenty year, and he got pretty close. Everybody is a little better looking in their head, right?
The other nice thing about being able to put a body on like a suit was that you got to define your physicality in a way that most people had to do with clothes, makeup, and weird haircuts. Let’s not even go into the gender thing; no one ever got it anyway. Lucky, lucky, Janus got to put on brown eyes, a roguish glint, and the clothes were just flavor. When he was alive, Jeffrey Allen had never quite had the nerve to show his mutable insides on the outside, and it was the biggest bonus of walking the world post-Hell.
He appeared, therefore, brighter and far more relaxed than Atticus as he crossed the parking lot, stopping close enough to Atticus to get a hint of the cologne. His eyebrows went up and he smiled, though without his usual mocking expression. “You’re serious about this,” he said, sounding both surprised and pleased.
He did not look quite so pleased as he directed his gaze over Atticus’ head at the sign. This was very public, wasn’t it? He’d never been on a premeditated gay date before, not in public. A certain 50’s wariness went through him like a chilly mist. He shook it off, and wondered why he hadn’t thought of cologne.
Atticus recognized him.
Was slightly different, but was still the Janus Atticus was accustomed to. Somewhat. Had been thinking about physical appearances lately. Not in the literary way that Atticus generally thought of things considered somewhat interesting. Wasn't a lazy introspection, a thought picked up and put away when the whim struck. Was relevant, and it kept popping up and invading Atticus' thoughts. Was better than thinking about vampires. Wasn't as prevalent as thoughts about work, but old letters and written things were a kind of addiction for the lazy man. Was second to that. Ahead of his need to go to Nebraska and investigate PJ's wolf pack. Was a recurring annoyance. Atticus didn't much like things he couldn't ignore. Didn't like this, so he would discuss it, when the time came. Only way to keep something from reemerging was to work through it. Atticus didn't like working through things, but one had to do what one had to do.
And Janus wasn't wrong. Atticus was serious about this. Not in a 'we're going to be monogamous for life' kind of way. In an 'I like you" kind of way. Was a difference for Atticus, but he thought it might be one Janus understood. "Am serious," he said without any of the shy hesitation that accompanied youth. "Look nice." Didn't comment about gender. Just that. Look nice, because Janus did look nice. "Cute hat." The smile that came with that was smirky, lazy, lethargic and appreciative. Hadn't considered Janus possible of being 'cute' before. But surprises didn't bother Atticus, despite all his laziness.
Also, Atticus wasn't worried about walking into a bar with a man. Didn't have any experience with it, but didn't mind it. Wasn't scared. Vampires scared him. Haunts didn't. Werewolves didn't. Demons didn't. Men with hate on their faces, they certainly didn't scare the mild-mannered professor with the curls.
Anyway, the bar was Downtown. Near the college, near the liberal part of town where boys held hands with boys, girls held hands with girls, and heteronormative wasn't always so normal. Atticus wasn't worried. Reached for Janus, thick fingers closing around the other man's wrist, and he gave it a tug. Let go. Didn't keep the grip, but the hold lingered a moment, and then Atticus led the way through the doors. Meandered until he found a corner with two leather chairs at 90-degree angles. Coffee table between them, and Atticus lazily quirked a brow. "Can I get you a drink?"
Janus was surprised into a true smile, pleased as any schoolgirl at prom that his appearance had such an effect. He reached up two hands and pulled on his purple knit hat to keep it down around his ears, and his hands fell to his sides, where one was plucked up again by Atticus. Janus was so perplexed by the grip and the tug, and yet simultaneously pleased, and pleased to be pleased, that he didn’t have time to say something witty about it. All of his concerns from a different lifetime flew rapidly out of his head. “Thanks.” Along he came, reaching forward to catch the door after Atticus pulled it open, and holding it until he could slip in after.
Janus looked around under the red glass candlelight, casing the room through the haze of wood polish and spilled whiskey. Old bars with slow jazz instead of tinny jukeboxes. Janus shook his head, bemused. “This is what happens when you pick the place,” he teased, grinning. The college-age kids in the tavern had waxed moustaches and floppy brown bags, and he sincerely hoped he didn’t look like he was trying as hard as they to appear not to try.
The purple hat folded as Janus raised his eyebrows, in a slightly disbelieving (and yet still, quite pleased) expression. “You’re buying me a drink?” He asked like a kid wondering if it was Christmas morning. “Sounds good. I’ll have what you’re having. Get some of that tasty fry food they always have these days.” Hopping his chair around the circular table, Janus seemed content to sit in Atticus’ shadow, a detectably warm, smokey presence close to his shoulder. He cheerfully expected him to do the talking, maneuvering him into expending the maximum effort.
Janus' tug on his hat made Atticus smile. The man was too lazy to bother hiding the grin. Too lazy to manufacture a grin that wasn't heartfelt. Grinned, walked ahead of Janus, and he didn't stop until they were at that relatively quiet corner. He looked around the place when Janus commented on it, but Atticus didn't look bothered. Wasn't bothered. Liked the place, unapologetically. Was too old for apologies. Was too old to pretend to like things he didn't like. Was too old to pretend he wasn't entertained by Janus' opinion of the location. Was too old not to have recognized that schoolgirl-prom grin for what it was. Didn't have experience with this, but Atticus was well-read. Might give him a leg up.
"I'm buying you a drink." Atticus had an expression of slothful pleasure on his face. Found he liked surprising Janus. Was a new realization, and Atticus was pleased with his ability to do this, to surprise. Chuckled to himself. "Tasty fry food. Can do that." Atticus assumed Janus was asking for appetizers. Place like this had nothing but tapas on the menu. Would select a few.
Janus sat, and Atticus rested a thick hand on Janus' shoulder as he moved past him. Ink stained the edges of Atticus' nails, despite having washed his hands repeatedly. Was caught in the crevices, the ink, and Atticus' touch had none of the haunt-cool that it usually did. Warm, bulky fingers rested on Janus' collarbone, the contact thoughtless as Atticus passed, walked to the bar.
At the bar, Atticus ordered whiskey, neat, for two, and a plate of mixed appetizers. He stopped at the jukebox, which was, in fact, filled with 70s artists, and he made a selection. That done, he returned to the table, where the waitress was placing the drinks in front of Janus. Atticus pulled out his wallet, and he gave her an uncounted collection of folded bills, and then he sat, slouched, really. Thighs spread, hands smoothing his pants to the knee. Leaned at the waist, and he reached for one of the tumblers of whiskey. Drink sweating between his fingers, he sat back again, and he regarded Janus through hazel eyes that were half-lidded, but the attention was intense. No lazily looking away, not tonight.
About halfway through a 180 turn to follow Atticus’ progress in the direction of the bar, Janus realized he was in very big trouble. The strange librarian (so Janus thought of him in his head, sometimes, when he was feeling petty and resentful) had turned into something provocative, and his intense interest in everything Janus tonight was disconcerting. Janus was used to being in control of (in this case, his) all one-on-one affairs, whether it be conversation or seduction. In many forms he was more suited to being seduced than being the seducer, but it was always him/her, and their game. This, Janus realized, watching Atticus’ hand swing casually as he moved off to the bar, was not his game. He wasn’t even sure if he was a player.
The waitress got a word of gratitude and a standard charming grin, the same one he would use on literally anyone. Then he pulled his drink closer and sniffed it, wondering how expensive Atticus went, betting on the house standard if only because it probably was easiest to order. The demon spent more time on the drink than on the money Atticus was handing over, an obvious betrayal of values: experience over money. He took a sip, and one of his fingers started tapping a beat to the Ramones on the rim of his glass.
For all of their pride in assessing people, the demon had not read Atticus’ lack of interest as a distaste for energy. Deception cost time and care, it knew, but concealment was not something Janus had expected of Atticus. Therefore his behavior now seemed a strange aberration. Atticus had never shown physical affection for anyone in Janus’ memory. Janus blinked back at him, his expression pleased, bewildered, wary. He inspected the flecks in the hazel eyes, diminished by all the dim red light. His gaze flicked down to Atticus’ mouth and back up again to his eyes.
“You’re not thinking about the jock, are you?” It was the most jarring thing he could think to say.
Atticus had never been on a date before. Would be entertained to realize Janus was so surprised by this date behavior. Truthfully, Atticus didn't think he was acting all that differently. Was being polite, but that was what people did on dates. Atticus' practical experience might be limited, but his literary experience was vast. The only thing Atticus noticed about this evening, as far as strangeness went, was the fact that he and Janus hadn't bickered about anything yet. Didn't know what to chalk that up to yet, but thought it was nice. He would also concur, possibly, that his own recent experiences might've mellowed him out in a way that seemed different to Janus. Whatever the reason, Atticus would've been entertained, but he wasn't privy to Janus' thoughts, so he just enjoyed the touch to Janus' shoulder before acquiring libations and music.
And the booze was the expensive kind. Top shelf. Single malt.
"Like that expression on your face," Atticus said plainly. Too old to mince words, or maybe he just wasn't a man for mincing. "Not sure what it means, but it looks good on you." Atticus sat back more comfortably, knees spread wider with the lazy entitlement of a man who was allowed to take up room in the world. Sipped his drink, and he gave a languorous grin to the very friendly waitress, who returned with the appetizers. Handed out some more folded bills, made good eye contact with the woman, then sat forward in his seat and set the drink beside the collection of tapas. Wasn't jarred easily. Janus asked his question, and Atticus laughed low. "No. Thinking about you." Grin and lazy charm, he reached for something resembling a quesadilla and picked it up with thick fingers. Even put a napkin under it as he held the cheesy triangle. "Going to tell me it's the same thing? Would have trouble agreeing. Wasn't exactly myself that night." His grin turned upward at one corner. "Never wear cowboy boots. They pinch my toes. Hats make my head look big." He took a bite.
A couple of girls walked past them to the jukebox, declaring their need for a song to dance to, and Atticus watched them go briefly, before turning his hazel attention back to Janus. "Dance much?" Atticus never had, but he thought it might be an interesting pastime. Slow dancing, not the jumping around that was so often seen on television shows and in movies. Wasn't old twinkle toes, not by any stretch of the imagination. Not surprising. "Was big when you were young, wasn't it?" Dancing.
Janus was wondering to himself about whether reaching for top shelf booze to serve to a date was some kind of metaphor about the effort required for relationships when Atticus spoke again. He blinked, since he’d been expecting - he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but not more relaxation and grins. When Janus wanted to make people relaxed, he was very capable. This time, however, he was the one conserving energy. This new mellow version of Atticus was extremely alarming.
One of the tapping fingers on the glass missed and dipped too far into the surface of the caramel kerosene it contained. Janus sucked his finger clean and finally sat back in time to watch the two girls breeze by in a cloud of floral perfume and restless energy, a counterpoint to the two of them at their table. “It’s a kind of me,” Janus said, his eyes settling onto Atticus’ face. He didn’t sound aggressive or aggrieved, just tired, as if he knew he’d never be able to explain it and have someone understand. “The way there was a different kind of you a week ago.” The smile lit into a grin, and his eyes went nice, wide and glinting. “Hat or no hat.”
Janus reached forward and started rolling the cheesy thing into a tube he could easily bite in half. “Some people were into dancing. Some of us were smoking out back admiring somebody’s new Camaro.” Janus smiled. It had been a very dark year in American history, but he liked to remember the good stuff about it instead. Sneaking cigarettes, track meets, the red line on the radio dial cutting through the static. Talk about naivete, he thought. All the horrible stuff happened to someone else back then. Apollo astronauts, civil rights activists, presidential candidates. Not me. Never me.
This version of Atticus was what everyone else got. Janus was the only person in the world that made Atticus bristle. Might've been some other people along the way, but none came to mind, and Atticus was sure none existed in recent memory. His slouch was confident. That was new, but it wasn't born overnight. Thank Steve for that, Janus. Thank Matt. Thank the jock. Atticus, who still wasn't sure he was much to look at, had enough success under his belt that he'd developed a bit of certainty. Was nice. Liked how it felt. Was like a suit well tailored, but comfortable. Atticus liked comfort.
Hazel gaze lowered when Janus' fingers missed the glass. Predictably, the same hazel gaze rose to watch Janus tuck fingers between lips. Probably watched too long. Unapologetic, didn't look away. Was too much work to pretend he wasn't watching fingertips disappear past Janus' lips. Sat wider. Shifted, adjusted, thought about things he hadn't experienced yet. It probably showed on Atticus' face. Was probably obvious in the way hazel darkened to a murky brown. Lashes lowered, breathing came through parted lips. Nostrils flared slightly. Janus was talking. Atticus focused slowly on the words. "Didn't feel like me. Might not be able to explain it, but it wasn't me at that party. Not that I don't remember it first-person. Not that it wasn't good. Just wasn't me. There's a layer over it, a film. Same with what happened during that art exhibition. Not really me. Not not me, maybe, but not me either. The choices weren't mine. Not sure something can be us without our decisions." Didn't want to argue. Wasn't worked up. Was just trying to explain his perspective. "Me, a week ago, still feels like me. To me. I seem different to you tonight, but I still feel like me."
Camaros. Atticus could appreciate camaros. "Was never a dancer." Watched Janus carefully. "Does that mean I shouldn't ask you to dance?" That grin was reborn, reasserted itself lazily on Atticus' mouth. Took another sip of his drink. Balanced the glass on his knee. Watched Janus eat as if it was as interesting as a first-edition Kerouac. "Could pick something slow on the jukebox."
Janus thought it was funny that Atticus could be so intent on relaxation that even mild disruption caused ripples. He noticed that recently the disruptions were so monumental that they could not be ignored, and he thought that, too, was funny (though maybe not as ha-ha funny and more ain't-that-a-bitch funny). He didn't know that he, particularly, was a special thorn in anyone's hide, but if asked he would probably theorize it was because of his multiple connections to Atticus in a peripheral way, things like his presence at the B&B, or his background with Steve and Matt. (Janus devoutly hoped that Matt hadn't gone into detail with Atticus on that last one. Maybe Atticus didn't even know, and they could leave it at that. It was hard to be mysterious and mutable when people knew you were you at your worst. Not that he was ashamed.)
The demon watched the man with interest. He'd never seen Atticus quite this worked up before, and it was a wonderfully novel experience. He didn't know Atticus could be worked up, and stared at him with the same slightly bemused expression tilting his mouth to one side. They both sat there thinking about fucking for a solid ten seconds before Janus reverted to the conversation as if never distracted. "I wasn't the me I am now," he agreed, "but I made my own choices. You're saying you didn't have a choice in the matter?" This was faintly dangerous territory. Janus was big on personal choices. Free fucking will.
The dark eyes had a kindling ember of red in the very edge as he flashed a glance at the dance floor and back. "You want to, I will." Janus wasn't sure he felt one way or another about dancing. They had done it plenty, in various forms, in various venues, but only as a physical flurry of introduction, a grounding ice breaker. There was at home in underwear; not the same thing.
Atticus knew things about Janus' time in the military. Didn't know specifics, though. Janus didn't need to worry about that. Neither Matt nor Steve were prone to sharing low moments in the lives of others. Still, Atticus had come to his own conclusions here and there. Assumed he had taped together enough details for an image of a life to emerge. Janus had helped with that himself, when he'd appeared as a starving soldier. Knew there was a POW camp. Knew the camp was released shortly after Janus had struck his deal. Knew, in short, things. Wasn't thinking about any of them now. Atticus was good at out of sight being out of mind. Would've gone insane a long time ago without the art of compartmentalization. Couldn't care about anything too much. Couldn't let one moment affect the next. Was a survival skill. Hadn't caused Atticus' laziness, but was tangled up in to the point of being an inseparable knot.
Wouldn't call this worked up, Atticus, but made sense Janus would think so. Had never seen Atticus in pursuit of a coveted letter. Had never seen Atticus teaching Beat poets to thirsty Literature students. Had never seen Atticus building a museum, word by word. Wasn't surprising that Janus' view was very specifically pinpoint. "Not saying I didn't have a choice in the matter. Saying that wasn't me. Not exactly the same thing." Atticus leaned forward and he picked up a wedge of fried cheese. Tucked it into his mouth, then wiped his fingers on the thighs of his new pants. "We'll see that differently. We see everything differently. Notice that?" But he went on talking. Atticus liked talking, despite how poorly Janus usually took the things said. "When you were young, did you pretend to be something you weren't? Daydream? Play dress up? Would pretend to be a famous scholar. Would discover lost worlds. Atlantis." Atticus chuckled. "Was I a famous scholar? No. Am I one now? No. But when I was daydreaming, I was that thing. Similar."
Atticus stood. Took one last swallow of his drink and ambled slowly to the jukebox. Didn't rush. Didn't look stressed about it. Leaned an elbow on the glass. Perused. Started with something slow, and lined up something else to follow it. Came back. Stopped in front of Janus' chair. Held a hand out. Smirked lazily.
To this day, Janus wasn't sure why he had shown PFC Allen to Atticus; there had been some crazy moment on the side of the road, with the mess of concrete and weeds lit up by blinking emergency lights, and something Atticus said managed to get up under Janus' skin and lodge there, until he just had to throw the truth in his face. The truth had not had any noticeable effect, not then and not now, so Janus wasn't sure what Atticus thought about the dead soldier. Janus wondered, with abstract horror, if Atticus thought he was talking to that man, the dead guy. That guy was long gone, scoured clean and shaped into something else by hellfire.
Then again, no. Atticus was only interested in what was directly in front of his face, and the man didn't think hard on anything farther. Intentionally, Janus thought. The demon didn't think of it as a negative trait. Like people who didn't know they craved pizza until they smelled it in the kitchen. "You're mortal," Janus pointed out, with somewhat brutal abruptness, popping a fried bit into his mouth a moment later. "Different perspective comes with the territory." He surveyed Atticus as the other man talked about living a daydream and making choices that weren't his in it. "Even if you're a daydream, the choices you make are still the choices you would make, as a daydream," he pointed out.
There was probably some nuance Janus wasn't getting. Not for the first time, he was reminded of the wide gap in education, as if Atticus was ready to wave another book at him or quote some long dead author. Janus had never been a scholar. Couldn't even pretend to be one all that well. You had to live dead knowledge to reel it off naturally.
Janus shook himself out of his thoughts to see watch Atticus wander across the room. He took the opportunity to clean the plate, while he had a chance, and when Atticus returned for Janus' hand, it was greasy in his. "I'm not good at this," he warned, walking out with him until they were in front of the jukebox. Janus waited with interest to see what Atticus would do. Take lead? Do some strange 90's prom thing in gentle sways? Jitterbug?
Atticus thought the dead soldier on the side of the road was part of Janus. Simple and complicated as that. Thought that boy was someone that Janus once was. Thought that boy was someone that Janus still carried with him. It was the same as the small boy Atticus had been once, scared and in a hospital bed. Janus was a demon, but he'd been a human first. Wasn't sure if there was a difference with demons created in Hell. Reasoned there was. Atticus didn't think he was talking to that dead soldier. But that dead soldier shaped this man, just the same as Hellfire had. Would have a hard time convincing Atticus otherwise. That soldier had created the man that made the deal, and that made him relevant. But Atticus didn't think this man was that man. Wasn't that blind.
But Janus wasn't wrong that Atticus didn't think too hard about what any of it meant. Accepted it as a thing, as something relevant, and moved on. Would rather get to know this man and who he was now. Wasn't exactly true that he was only interested in what was in front of his face, since that didn't allow for the letters and the books, but wasn't wrong, either. Dichotomy. Atticus didn't mind being incongruous.
"Am mortal," Atticus agreed. "Not wrong about perspective. We have death looming always. Great unknown. It's been man's obsession since they realized death was death. Hard not to focus on something like that, when we're so curious and fearful. You don't fear that. You fear other things." Atticus had seen Janus afraid. Knew Janus had fears. Couldn't even begin to imagine the torture of Hell. Had tried. Had read about it. Had talked to his haunts. Was still sure he had no real comprehension of the kind of pain involved. "The daydreams of a child aren't the same as the daydreams of someone my age, who knows what I know, who's seen what I've seen. As a child, I saw possibilities that I now understand are impossible. Funny, isn't it? Since I know so many more possibilities now."
But enough talk of death and the lost dreams of childhood. Had Janus' greasy hand in his. Atticus didn't mind the grease. "Don't worry. Think you'll be able to handle it," Atticus said of the dance. He walked Janus out between two couples so engrossed in each other that they shifted, made room without even looking up. The song was rough and slow, not the kind of thing teenagers considered romantic. Was appropriate, and Atticus brought one thick hand to Janus' hip, and then the other. Atticus was no twinkle toes. Couldn't jitterbug. But he swayed closer, close, and he let Janus decide where to put his hands. As for Atticus' own hands, they flexed fingers on Janus' hips. "Have a question to ask you. Don't worry. Not asking you to go steady or wear my ring." Atticus grin was a slow thing, syrupy and lazy, a thing offered beneath half-lowered lashes over hazel. This was as much an excuse for closeness as it was a dance. Atticus knew that. Didn't hide it in his expression.
Janus might agree that many people were the sum of their experiences. The people they had been, the things they had done. It was just more complicated for him, because they could be anything she wanted, and it was a perfect sentence to explain it. The experiences had a different cast when one realized that every situation was approached with an internal interpretation of self that was then visible in every sense. The interchangeability of physical appearance made Janus a good manipulator and also a semi-transparent puzzle.
"I could fear death too," Janus said, making his words light as Atticus crossed the floor. He wasn't sure what to make of it, a trace of unease from that dead boy moving through his body in cool chill, a visible acknowledgment of difference that Atticus seemed not to notice. He had done plenty of same-sex wooing, and even dancing, dating, all just as visible as this. It was too quiet here, the strangers' eyes all catching too much. Janus turned his attention and focused it on the other man. He was good at this, and intently went about it until they were the only two people in the place. He then relaxed, visible in expression and muscle under Atticus' hands.
Janus wound one arm around Atticus' neck and slid his other hand behind the other man's elbow, in an embrace deceptively casual. He moved whenever Atticus did, and didn't trouble himself with the rhythm. For once, he didn't say anything.
Atticus thought about Janus' potential to fear death. Thought it about quietly, without asking, until he had words that felt right in his mouth. "Can you die?" Might've seemed basic, but it was the one thing Atticus kept coming back to. Didn't think Janus could die, but suspected there might be a worse alternative. Might be that Janus feared the death he'd already experienced. Assumed the other man had died before the deal had been cashed in, but perhaps not. Perhaps the fear came from never having experienced it. Too many options, so Atticus asked the blunt question without making his own suppositions.
Atticus liked the feeling of Janus' arm around his neck. Smiled when Janus' hand slipped to his elbow. It was casual, but it wasn't, and Atticus didn't let the distance between them remain significant. Atticus wasn't worried about this. Too old, too broad, too certain in his skin to fear his sexuality. Had grown up fearing so many things, and had long ago decided fear was too much trouble. Had perfected lazy separation, putting up dividers between himself and life. The result was that he had no concern who looked at them. Didn't notice them. The hand at Janus' hip pulled the other man closer. Atticus swayed.
Janus was silent. Atticus was not. "Don't want to give me permission to ask my question?" Atticus' lazy, hazel-eyed smile said he was going to ask, regardless. "Was going to ask about her. You. You as her. Was going to ask why." Asking. Atticus didn't give his opinions or offer his judgements on why Janus was sometimes female. Like the death thing, the options were many, and he already knew it was a personal subject. The fact that it was a personal subject meant it wasn't a business decision. For a long time, Atticus thought it was business. Then he thought it was something like timesharing. Now, he had no idea. So he was asking.
Atticus hand slid around to the small of Janus' back, pulled the man closer. His voice was gravel in Janus' ear. Rumbled. "Going to put you in a car once this song is done. Pay your fare home. Close the door once you're inside. Call in the morning and ask if you had a good time." He moved back slightly. His smile said he meant every threatening word.
It wasn't the most cheerful conversation, but it was surprisingly honest. On Janus' innumerable dates, she had never discussed precisely what she was, or anything as intimate as real hopes and real fears. In such situations, it was best to a representative of the supernatural in the most pure and alien way, to inspire both trust and impress authority. That kind of attitude told a potential mark that yes, salvation (not that kind) is here. Atticus was unlikely to be impressed by that kind of thing. "Yes, I can die. It's just not permanent. It hurts a lot. Reforming is hard." He paused, thought. "There's a lot of paperwork."
After a moment he smiled, a slow coffee ripple that had a touch of bitterness in with the cream. "I knew you were going to ask it anyway. You have such a weird way of asking me things." He shifted his weight as they moved, letting Atticus drift them any way he chose. Maintaining his concentration on ignoring the room proved to be a considerable effort, and he thought a while. "Why sometimes I'm she?" he clarified, to be sure he understood the question. He looked into Atticus' face when he said replied, inspecting his eyes.
Being pulled nearer was a surprise. This turn of conversation had made him suspect that divisions were being made and lines were being drawn. Atticus was rewarded, at the end of that little speech, by a very slight little shiver in the middle of Janus' back. He blinked rapidly. "What the hell for?" He sounded annoyed. It seemed like a long, drawn-out game. Or perhaps he was being played with; a flash of uncertainty moved through his eyes.
The answer about dying was good. Honest. Atticus trusted Janus to tell him the truth. Possibly that made him an idiot, but he didn't think so. They weren't going to get anywhere if one of them wasn't willing to put down the fighting and distrust. More and more, Atticus wanted this to go somewhere, so he was willing to be the one who took the risk. Janus would probably see it differently. The thought made Atticus smile. Janus always saw everything differently. "Think I would rather it be permanent." Death. Though not the haunting kind of dead. His haunts were well behaved for the evening. He'd lectured them. Unless they wanted him sitting out in the rain until he contracted pneumonia, they would behave. Was a useless threat, but was easier for them to sulk out of sight for one evening. Atticus was already percolating a plan about them. Just hadn't put it in motion yet.
Atticus enjoyed that bitter cream smile. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks. Must like my weird way of asking things. Here, aren't you? Dancing with me." The people in the room no longer existed for Atticus. They'd only ever existed marginally, but now that wasn't even the case. "Why you're sometimes a she. Why you're sometimes a he." If he was going to do this open listening thing, he was going to go all in. For a man who'd never actively done anything in his entire life, this was quite a leap. "Both," he clarified, hazel eyes direct and clear.
Janus' shiver made Atticus very pleased he'd drawn the other man in. Didn't even react poorly to that rapid blink and Janus' annoyed follow-up. "Because this is a date. I'm attempting to woo you." That explanation was offered with the laziest of grins. "Would kiss you right now, but suspect you think we're too public." Atticus' gaze clearly said he did not give a shit about being too public. Hazel attention dropped to Janus' mouth, then rose again to meet those uncertain eyes.
Janus wasn't an inherently truthful creature. Quite the contrary, he was a practiced liar by profession. That Atticus seemed to expect total truth put him off his game consistently. It would be one thing if he expected it based on ignorance, but Atticus knew full well what was sitting in his B&B. He didn't answer about the permanency of death, just stared into Atticus' eyes with an uncharacteristic dimness in his own, communicating somehow that he didn't care to imagine it.
"Because she's who I am on the inside, too." A flicker of amusement, light and fast a pale moth, moved over his face. Atticus would ask his questions in his way, and he would get whatever answers Janus threw out in response, some helpful and some infuriating. More, Atticus tended to ask questions to which Janus didn't know the answer. Like who came back as haunt, or why some of the dead were demons, and others were just souls. Or the different versions of Hell, and the countless forms of Heaven, and what made them house who they housed. (The obvious Maker answer was not going to pass his lips.)
Janus laughed outright. Wooed. Only fools had done that, and only when they were trying to get free favors. Atticus wasn't conniving enough that, which meant courting was actually what was happening. Janus thought that was hilarious. He laughed, a chuckle at first, and then louder, in three successions. Halfway into the last he leaned into Atticus' face and kissed him. A peck, a second touch of lips, and then the real thing, pressure and tongue and a touch of purr to end the evening.